Temperature's Rising

{My husband refers to his medical equipment as his “girlfriend.”}

I stumble, blurry-eyed and unawake in the too-early morning, into the room where he lies and set about pushing the down-arrows — bip… bip… bip… — one at a time to check his overnight treatment stats.

“Drain me,” he grunts, peeking sleepy-eyed at the bip-scrolling numbers through equally blurred vision.

I hit the proper button, turning the bips to one long beeeep, then climb on top of him – laying my pajama-clad body over his like a blanket – while the suction-hum of the dialysis* machine’s pump whirs to life and begins pulling fluid from his peritoneal cavity.

Settling into place over him, careful to avoid bumping his port or kinking his tube, I feel his cock growing under the bedclothes between our bodies and give a little wiggle, pressing my belly against his arousal and realigning our limbs.  He murmurs something unintelligible against my neck and I do it again.

“Ryoo mnuing?” he mumbles** into my throat.

“What?”

“What. Are. You. Doing?” he repeats, trying not to get my hair in his mouth with the enunciation.

“Well…” I respond, wiggling again, “I figured it might be nice for your wife to get you hard while your girlfriend*** is sucking you off.”

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